Yesterday's Tune
by Silvan Witch
Summary: Bilbo's had a rather enjoyable day. The weather is beautiful, and he's in quite a good mood. Until, that is, the tune he's humming while cleaning dishes strikes him as all too familiar... Set 25 years after BoTFA A sad ficlet that can be seen as Bagginshield; I like to think of it that way, but it's not clearly stated. This is a lot of hurt and very little comfort.


**Yesterday's Tune**

 **T.A. 2967, Twenty-six years after the Battle of the Five Armies**

"Be off now, lad! You'll want to be back before dark!" he yelled down the path to his nephew, who had just gone out for his evening walk. It was that lovely golden hour before the sun had really begun to set, and a mild breeze swept through the gently rolling hills of the Shire. Bilbo had half a mind to go with him, but he was quite eager to return to the novel he'd left by his armchair the night prior.

"I will, uncle!" came the distant reply. Bilbo closed the front door and returned to the dining room where he and Frodo had just finished dinner, drinks, and two rounds of desserts (strawberry cheesecake followed by orange sherbet). His evening with Frodo had been enjoyable indeed, when compared with the afternoon's events; the Sackville Baggins had come over for afternoon tea, and surely that could dampen anyone's mood. Bilbo, however, was oddly cheerful as he began clearing the table of plates, cups and silverware (no one in Hobbiton ever had much in the way of leftovers), and depositing them in the kitchen sink.

He filled the sink with warm water, worked up a lather in his sponge, and as he began to clean the night's dishes, he started to hum a tune. It was a happy melody, quite upbeat and fun, really. He'd have thought he'd come up with it himself, as he was known to do, except for the fact that it struck him as strangely familiar. He pondered this during his washing, and somehow the song seemed a bit less happy. Surely it would get him through to the end of the chore and back to his book though. He had finished with the cups and silverware, and was moving on to the dinner plates when it hit him. Of course it wasn't his own creation; this song had lyrics to it, and with the weight of a boulder on his heart, Bilbo recalled them.

 _Blunt the knives, bend the forks,_

 _Smash the bottles and burn the corks,_

Bilbo's hands went limp, and the plate he was holding slipped away into the soapy water. He stared aimlessly at the chore before him, which was suddenly as useless as the shoes in his closet, and he felt his eyes begin to water.

 _Chip the glasses and crack the plates,_

 _That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_

The voices of the dwarves filled his head, and his vision began to blur. Their faces came to mind all at once, as he tried to stave off the rush of memories. He leant against the counter and let his head hang as tears fell rapidly.

 _Cut the cloth, trail the fat,_

 _Leave the bones on the bedroom matt,_

He missed them all terribly, but of course he couldn't keep Fili and Kili out of his head. Oh, how he longed to see their bright smiles and their mischievous, sparkling eyes again. Instead he received their still bodies, bathed in firelight and surrounded by black rock. He wept now as he did at that funeral, going weak in the knees, and at that he could fight off Thorin no longer.

 _Pour the milk on the pantry floor,_

Between the two brothers, and clutching the glowing jewel that had all but torn them apart, he lay unmoving, the color gone from his face. Bilbo had seen so much of it seep out in front of him as shocking crimson against stark white snow. Now half a world and a sealed tomb stood between him and the fallen dwarf king.

Splash the wine on every door!

At the thought he grew furious, rage boiling in his stomach as if the steam from it would soothe his aching chest. He snatched the plate from the water and slung it to the floor beside him. The sound of shattering satisfied him immensely, and he knew without looking that he'd done much more than crack it.

With that he slumped forward, relying on the counter to support him until his fit was through. It was a nasty business, with puffy eyes, and violent sobs, a sore throat, wet cheeks, and the faint taste of salt on his lips. He didn't know how long he'd been like that. It felt like quite a long while, but it couldn't have been; Frodo hadn't yet returned. The unpleasantness of it all must have made it seem much longer.

At long last he straightened himself up, wiped his eyes on his shirt-sleeve, and turned to walk away from the now hopeless task of cleaning up. But at his very first step he yelped. A shock of pain had just gone up his foot. Looking down, he found a shard of china protruding from his foot, now dripping red.

Well, it could have been worse. He really should have remembered doing something so daft. Limping to a nearby chair, he plucked the plate fragment from his foot and used a clean rag to stop up the wound. It wasn't terribly deep thanks to his calloused feet; he was sure that anyone but a hobbit would have had a more difficult time. He then tied the rag around his foot and set to work cleaning up the plate and its surrounding mess of soapy water and droplets of blood. Maybe the washing up could wait until morning, but that certainly couldn't be left lying around. Hastily he set about his work, and although his shaking hands made him fumble, he finished quickly. His whole body felt heavy. It was the sort of exhaustion one felt after completely draining themselves of energy. A good sob could do that to you, he supposed.

With that he left the kitchen for the comfort of his armchair. He needed to get away from that room as quickly as possible, or another crying fit might come on, and nothing was more comforting than a warm hearth and a good book. He did so need the escape his novel would bring him. He felt the subjects of his heartbreak lingering in the back of his mind, but he simply had no tears left to spend on them. No, better to send his thoughts somewhere else. He sank into his armchair with an audible _thunk_ , letting out a deep sigh as he did.

Suddenly his limbs felt so heavy that he could scarcely think of lifting them. He really should get himself to bed if he's this tired, but that seemed awfully far away to him when he was already cocooned by the grand chair. Glancing out a window, he saw that it was nearly dark. If Frodo was to find him asleep here, it would be better not to worry him. Bilbo dragged an old crochet blanket over himself, covering his bandaged foot, and promptly let sleep take him. Dreams too, could serve as an escape, he told himself. Nonetheless, the last fleeting image in his mind's eye was of Thorin, who could almost be sleeping too.


End file.
